


Chasing the Grey Line

by sparrow2000



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-21 19:37:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21287429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow2000/pseuds/sparrow2000
Summary: Spike and Xander take a moonlight walk on Halloween
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: Spook Me Ficathon 2019





	Chasing the Grey Line

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Non-canon character death  
Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy et al own everything. I own nothing  
Beta extraordinaire as always: thismaz  
Written for the spook_me ficathon 2019. Thank you to the mods for working so hard to make this a great community every year.  
Prompt: At the end of the story...  
Comments are cuddled and called George

Xander leans against the railing and shivers against the cool of the fall sea breeze. The small dock is deserted and the town breakwater stretches out into the distance, doglegging out into the strait and then back towards the harbour like a giant, crooked C. The beacon at the top of the small lighthouse at the end blinks on and off, regular as a metronome. He notes it out of the corner of his eye, but his attention is on Spike, sauntering towards him, inevitable cigarette in hand, his duster swinging rhymnically as he walks.

"You took your time," he says

"Good things are worth waiting for," Spike replies.

Xander cocks his head to the side. It’s a move he learned from Spike. Dawn laughs at him every time she sees him do it. "Are you suggesting you're good?"

Spike takes a drag of his cigarette and mirrors the head tilt. It looks better on him, like the movement just oozes out of his backbone. "Good at some things. Never had any complaints."

“Mainly because you'd kill anyone that complains," Xander replies.

"You know me so well, love."

"Scary isn't it?"

Spike shrugs. "It's Halloween. That's the scariest you're going to get tonight."

"I'll hold you to that. We get enough weird crap to deal with the rest of the year. We deserve a night off."

"'Course we do."

"Which leads me to my next question. Why are we here?"

"Depends what you mean?” Spike jabs his cigarette in Xander’s direction as if it will help make his point. “Are you talking philosophically, or specifically?"

"Much as I'd love to get into some great existential discussion with you, only I wouldn’t because it's cold, I mean specifically. Why on Halloween, when all good little vampires are meant to be curled up in front of the TV watching gullible kids get dismembered by Freddie or Jason or whoever, are we out here, where I have to say there is a distinct lack of candy? "

"I thought it would be romantic."

"Romantic?" Xander works hard not to sound too incredulous. From the look on Spike’s face, he’s not sure he succeeded.

"Yeah. Just the two of us. None of the girls around. No beasties to worry about. Just a walk in the moonlight.”

“Okay.” Xander pauses, makes a point of looking around him and turns his attention back to Spike. “That’s… that’s actually kind of nice.”

“I can be nice,” Spike says.

“But not good.”

“Now you’re getting it. Play your cards right, and later on who knows what might happen?”

“Always with the big talk, aren’t you?” Xander says. “But first you want to take a walk in the moonlight?”

“You catch on fast.”

“I’m known for it. Just wanted to clarify, in case you’re secretly plotting to kill me while there are no other beasties around.”

“If I was going to kill you, love, I’d want an audience. I’m all about the adulation.”

Xander nods. “One of the things I love about you is how self-aware you are, even though it’s kind of disturbing. So, where are we actually walking? Because I’m not seeing much in the way of walking trails.”

“I thought we’d take a walk on the breakwater. Go out to the lighthouse and look back at the harbour. See it all lit up.”

Xander turns his attention back to the breakwater. It’s a thin grey line of concrete and granite stretching out the best part of half a mile to the lighthouse at the end, with sloping walls disappearing deep into the waves lapping at the solid stone slabs scattered like children’s building blocks at its base. There’s a railing, chest high on top of the walkway, running the whole length on either side. It’s intimidating, even with the safety feature. He hates to think what it would look like if the railing wasn’t there.

“Are you completely out of your mind? It’s cold. It’s breezy, and you want to take a walk on a narrow finger of concrete that pokes out into the sea?”

“Well, yeah,” Spike says. “Look, it’s quiet. No one about. The rest of the town is heaving with rampant bunches of kids hyped up on cheap chocolate. We get this place to ourselves.”

“Okay, spoil my pissyness with a good point, why don’t you?” Xander replies. “But, just checking, you do know I get vertigo?”

“You used to arse around on scaffolding all day. How can you have vertigo?”

“We had this thing called a safety harness. And we weren’t usually walking along the edge of large bodies of no doubt very cold water.”

"You’ll be fine, love. Got the rail there so stupid buggers don’t fall off the edge. Not unless they climb up and over and take a swan dive. Can’t legislate for gross stupidity.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel better…”

“Just pointing out that you have to actively want to fall off. You'll be fine.”

Xander takes a deep breath. “Okay, I can do this. Railings. Gross stupidity. No Titanic moments. Just a romantic walk, like you said.”

Spike smiles and stubs his cigarette out under his boot. He takes Xander’s hand, curls their fingers together. “That’s it, love. Just a little stroll. Just the two of us, yeah.”

Xander looks down at their clasped hands and shakes his head. “I’d say that I’m such a girl, but given the girls we know, maybe not.” He takes a step forward and tugs. “Come on blondie, what are you waiting for? I want romance.”

“Git,” Spike replies, resisting the tug for a second, just because he can, but then he’s back at Xander’s side and they walk, shoulder to shoulder out onto the breakwater, the sound of their footsteps and the lap, lap, lap of the water at its base the only sounds in the cool evening air.

They amble in silence for a minute. Spike’s on Xander’s blind side and he scratches his fingers against Xander’s palm, a cat on a scratching post. Xander gives a soft, pleased hum at the back of his throat.

“Why is Halloween such a no-no for demons? Is it really because it’s crass and commercial?”

“That’s definitely part of it,” Spike replies. “Got nothing against crass and commercial myself, but some of the big muckety-mucks feel like humans take the piss dressing up and getting all the details wrong. Years ago they decided for one day a year they were going to take the moral high ground, which is a bit rich when I think about the morals of most demons.”

“What do they do? I’m guessing if they’re going for the moral high ground, they’re not sitting around watching reruns of Wheel of Fortune or the Price is Right and drinking Coors Light.”

“Not so much. They use it as a time to hone their skills.”

Xander stops. The first dogleg is about 100 yards or so ahead. “What does that mean? Hone their skills?”

“Doing what demons do. Scaring the shit out of humans.”

“I know I’m going to regret this because it gives you an opportunity to say I’m stupid, but I don’t understand.”

Spike chuckles. “No point in rising to the bait if you’re expecting it, is there? Demons practice on each other. If they can scare another demon, then they know they’re going to be extra scary the next time they go after a human.”

“So you’re saying Halloween is actually summer school for demons?”

“Apart from not being in the summer, that’s about the size and shape.”

“Wow,” Xander says and shivers. “Come on, keep walking, I’m getting frosty.”

They walk on for five paces before Xander stops again. “You and Dru and Angelus and Darla did that? What did Captain Hair gel do - hone his nun-stalking skills?”

Spike tugs on their clasped hands. “Like you said, you’ll get cold. Time to keep moving.” He turns around and walks backwards for a few steps pulling Xander along. “We told ghost stories,” he says. “Not so much with the blood and guts, but proper hairs on the back of your neck ghost stories. Angelus was best at it. That bloody Irish brogue would come out and you could almost see the scenes playing out in front of you.”

“Wow,” Xander says again. “That’s kind of cool, in a homicidal killer kind of a way. And can you stop walking backwards. This thing is narrow. You’re making me nervous.”

“Sorry love.” Spike doesn’t sound in the least repentant, but at least he turns to face forward, so Xander doesn’t call him on it. The breakwater takes a hard right and the long centre leg protecting the harbour stretches out ahead of them. The white paint on the lighthouse gleams in the distance in the blink, blink, blink of its beacon. Spike guides Xander gently around the dogleg and the water swishes and swirls in the twilight water below.

“If you were back there now, what kind of story would you tell?” Xander asks. He bumps his shoulder gently against Spike’s. “Go on, tell me a story.”

Spike looks at him sideways. “You want me to tell you a ghost story?”

“Yeah, why not? I mean, I grew up on the Hellmouth. You came back from the dead, twice. How scary can it be?”

“Is that a challenge?” Spike asks.

“If you like,” Xander replies. “Go on blondie, do your worst.”

“You’re weird, you know that? I plan a moonlight walk and you want a bloody ghost story.”

“Think of it as vampire candy and flowers.”

“Idiot,” Spike says, but he grins and his teeth gleam in the half-light. “Okay then, I’ll tell you a story.”

They walk in silence for another long moment. All Xander can hear is the tromp, tromp, tromp of Spike’s boots, the sound of waves against the concrete blocks at the base of the breakwater wall, and the mewing of a seabird somewhere out to sea.

Spike’s voice is soft, sliding out of the silence.

_“They say that lovers used to walk this breakwater. The lighthouse was a beacon, not just to keep ships safe and guide sailors home - it was a trysting point away from prying eyes and families who wouldn’t approve._

_“They say that for a hundred years or more, this wall guarded the harbour and the secrets of the town. Secrets like a boy who loved a boy. Who had his love returned, but had to hide their feelings and their passions in the half-lit shadows far away from the judgment of others._

_“They say that one boy was bolder than the other. Older too, but only by a year, just a tick of the clock in all the time in the world. And that’s what he dreamed of - all the time in the world - of a place where he could hold hands and walk in the sunlight, proud and unafraid of whispers in corners and folks who turned their back. He made a plan, this boy. A plan to run to another city by the sea where he’d heard that people lived as people and not as sons and daughters. Where people lived as individuals and not as expectations. Where people had a future and not a past. He had a dream, this brave, bold boy._

_“They say he told his love about his dream. About this brave, bold future in the city by the sea. But his love was wary. Not timid. Not scared. Unsure and shy, younger and so very much in love. He wanted, yes he wanted, but the leap of faith, of courage was almost more than he could bear. But his love made him brave. So brave. Made him imagine a future where they could hold hands and walk in the sunlight, proud and unafraid of whispers in corners and folks who turned their back. He wanted, oh he wanted, did this shy, brave boy._

_“They say they made a plan, these boys. These brave, bold boys. These so in love fine boys. They planned to meet on Halloween. When the town cast off its Christian clothes and played the pagan for one swift, dark night, these boys would slip away. They’d brave the twilight where day chased into night, and they’d walk the breakwater and meet at the lighthouse where they’d met so many times before. They’d bribe a boatman to help them off the end and take them to the farther shore. And then, then they’d run to the city by the sea where people could be people and they’d find their future and their freedom and have their dreams fulfilled.”_

Spike pauses and the only sound is their footsteps and the hypnotic ebb and flow of the waves as Spike stares out across the grey-dark sea. The moment stretches and Xander wants to speak, but Spike begins again, and his voice is slippery and his voice is slick as the wet stone under their feet.

_“They were betrayed, these brave, bold boys. They were betrayed by the boatman, the canny boatman. Who’d promised safe passage to the farther shore. He coveted, did the boatman. He coveted the younger boy but wasn’t brave enough to make his case. And like so many weak men before, he vowed to punish these boys, to purge himself of guilt and hate and sin. So he told their parents of their bright, bold plans. And the parents plotted and the parents planned._

_“On the night of Halloween, that some call All Hallows Eve and fewer still call Samhain, the older boy slipped lightly through the twilight and walked, careful as a tightrope walker, along the breakwater. There were no safety rails in times gone by, just hard stone and steep walls and the waves crashing on the dark grey granite blocks below. But this boy, this bright, brave boy knew every inch from docks to lighthouse and his step was soft and joyous as the beacon called him step by step towards his dream._

_“They say the boatman was there to meet him. The sly boatman. The slippery boatman. Ready with a rope and a cloth to muffle cries for help. And the bright, brave boy was captured and silenced and bound. His father stood behind him, shoulder to shoulder with the father of his love, and they waited and they watched as they’d plotted and they’d planned._

_“Then his love, his shy, brave love walked along the breakwater. Sticking to the centre, careful of the edges, the unprotected edges, and the steepness of hard stone walls that disappeared into the sea. The blink, blink, blink of the beacon called him forward, and his heart was high and his feet were sure, and the future was there for the taking. And when he approached the lighthouse he called out to his love as they had planned, but there was silence in return. He stopped, did this brave boy. He listened, and he waited, but the twilight was empty save for the sounds of the sea and the quick, harsh catch of his breath._

_“They say his love, his brave, bound love, struggled and strained and twisted in the boatman’s grip. They say he finally broke free and staggered forward, hopeful of warning of their fathers’ trap. But as he twisted to avoid the boatman’s grip, he lost his footing and our brave boy stumbled and our brave boy fell. The stone was slippery, the stone was slick, his hands were tied and he screamed behind his gag as momentum carried him forward and he tumbled helplessly over the edge. Between one heartbeat and the next he was gone, and his dreams were shattered like the waves crashing on the great grey blocks below._

_“And our young boy screamed and the fathers shouted, and the boatman, the sly boatman thought for one brief moment that he could have that boy, that shy brave boy and reached out to take his prize. But that boy sought to evade his betrayers. He staggered and he stumbled, and reeled on the edge, the unprotected edge, the slick stone under his feet. He fell, as his love had done before and his screams echoed in the still of the grey light as the sea embraced him, and the boys were reunited in its icy depths.”_

Spike’s voice is soft, and seductive as a snake, spinning his yarn, telling his tale. His words curl around Xander, oozing into his head and his heart as the story unfolds. In his minds-eye, he sees the boys with all their hopes and dreams and fears. He feels their trepidation and their ambition, recognises it as his own, and mourns their deaths, sacrificed to the bigotry and desires of others.

Then Spike begins to speak again, his eyes are fixed on the lighthouse, his nails cut into Xander’s palm, and the tromp, tromp, tromp of his boots is a hypnotic drum that beats in time to Xander’s heart.

_“They say that on Halloween, when the moon is right, and the light teeters on the edge of dark you can see these boys, these bright, brave boys, relive that night. Doomed to tread the breakwater and see their dreams betrayed, when they chase the grey line of their twilight world as day turns over into night. And when the light goes out, they rest and dream together for another long year._

_“So if you walk the breakwater on Halloween, on All Hallows Eve, on Samhain, pay attention to the wind, the sea and the slick, grey stone. Watch for these boys, these bright, brave boys. And if you see them, mind your own love and your own dreams and watching your footing in the dark.”_

The sound of the sea is loud in Xander’s ears, the spray from the waves makes the stone treacherous underfoot and he knits his fingers tight to Spike’s. The moon slides behind a scudding cloud and the light from the beacon strobes, hypnotic in the blue, black half-light.

A mist drifts along the breakwater, tendrils trailing on slick, grey stone. The mist thickens, the air is heavy and the waves crash high against the breakwater walls. Xander staggers and he reaches with his free hand for a railing that isn’t there. The deepening twilight is a negative photograph - Spike’s hair is black and his duster white - and he flickers in and out of Xander’s sight as the beacon turns and turns again.

Someone’s running and he searches for the sound when a sharp cry echoes in the sudden silence as one boy, bound and gagged, staggers and stumbles out of the mist, and another boy struggles towards him, his mouth wide open in a silent scream. Three shadowy figures stand in the lee of the lighthouse, the concrete buckles and boils under their feet and first one boy, then the other tumbles over the edge of the breakwater and their death cry is deafening in the darkening sky.

“Spike,” Xander shouts. “Did you see that? Did you…” But his words are snatched away on the rising wind, and Spike’s fingers slide from his own. “Spike,” he shouts again. The wind howls and the waves crash and the beacon light blinks, blinks, blinks and the mist curls around his feet.

Spike stands at the edge of the breakwater, his duster flapping in the gale. His eyes are blank and his face slides from one form to the other, and his teeth gleam. “There you are, my bright, brave boy,” he whispers.

The beacon light goes out.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: And if you were wondering, the prompt for this story was 'ghost'.


End file.
